


Too Much Too Little

by 1spideyson



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Number Five | The Boy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Exhaustion, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Post-Season/Series 02, Pseudo-Incest, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:15:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26385493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1spideyson/pseuds/1spideyson
Summary: Five says nothing on the ride back, just gently presses the tips of thin fingers to his eyes and temples like his head is a new instrument he’s learning to play. Like he’s searching for the right notes.Diego tries not to cast too many worried glances the boy’s way, but when Five crawls into Diego’s bed, shaking and grey, he can’t stop himself from speaking up.***A look at Five and Diego's relationship through a h/c lens.
Relationships: Number Five | The Boy/Diego Hargreeves
Comments: 13
Kudos: 185





	Too Much Too Little

**Author's Note:**

> A Note on Five: Five’s body is aged up, think 25ish. I refer to him as “the boy” because it’s one of his titles (“Number Five: The Boy”) and because looking younger is an important aspect of his character. I also want to point out that while he was stuck in the Apocalypse for decades, Five himself admits in season one that he hasn’t had much socialization, and might still have some growing up to do. His consciousness is fifty eight, but considering his time in isolation + time at the Commission, I would place Five mentally in his mid-twenties.
> 
> A Note on Pseudo Incest: They do it in the show. They do it even more in the comics. To me, the Umbrella Academy operated far less like a family and far more like an orphanage. They were traumatized kids stuck in a cycle of manipulation and exploitation. I think after years apart, they are more than justified in forming the adult relationships they need/want. 
> 
> Also, this is fiction, and I really like the idea of gentle jock!Diego and sensitive genius!Five healing together, okay?

Diego is repairing a small tear in his jacket when there’s a knock at his door. Living in the boiler room of a gym, while it has its downsides, has a few perks as well. One of them is privacy.

So unless it's Al coming to give him another piece of his mind about Diego’s late night showering habits, some perp has followed him home. He grabs a knife and slinks towards the door, counts silently to three, then opens it quickly, raising his hand and preparing his aim as soon as he sees how many there are and -

-and it’s Five. Five who gives him a cool look in response to the weapon in his hand.

“Still deciding whether or not to gut me? Pity, I brought Indian.” Five gestures to a large paper bag in his hand.

“ _Jesus_. You scared the piss out of me!”

Five smiles crookedly, “And here I was thinking I was bringing my boyfriend a nice surprise. Should I come back later when you’ve calmed down? Do you need a glass of warm milk?”

Diego waits for his heartbeat to return to a normal speed, “Dickhead. You’ve never knocked before, what the fuck was I supposed to think?” He relieves Five of the takeout and begins to set the table. “Besides,” he says, turning around to face Five again, “this is my place. I’ll be the one getting you the warm milk.”

Five looks severely unimpressed.

“Well done,” he says, ”If I knew you were going to go stupid this early, I would never have invested.” He takes a moment to walk carefully down the steps, as if really considering it, “Maybe I should take my goods and go elsewhere.” Diego snorts, but says nothing. _Elsewhere_. God, Five is such an old man. He’s barely convincing as a twenty-some as it is, even with his elegant little twink body.

Diego simply helps Five out of his jacket and kisses his forehead in a manner he knows Five hates. _Sappy_. “As if anyone else could tolerate you destroying their walls.”

Five steals some naan from Diego’s plate, perching on his seat like a flighty cat and says no more, but his eyes are warm. “Asshole,” he says, fond.

They eat saoji chicken curry, and Diego tries to wipe his eyes surreptitiously by rubbing his knuckles into them like he’s tired. Like he’s a badass trainer who’s had a long day. It’s not as bad as the phaal curry Five insisted they try last month, but the spice makes his vision blur and brain short circuit.

Five supports most of the conversation anyways, shooting Diego smug little looks throughout the meal. He has no idea how or when the little gremlin learned mastery over spicy foods, but Five doesn’t so much as break a sweat. Diego spoons more _raita_ onto his plate.

“I think I’ve found where the next big one is going to be,” Five is saying while Diego slowly dies, “It’s looking like the High Line or possibly Hudson Gardens; tourist shit. Trust the Commission to have zero class”

Diego gulps down water, “Another one so soon? Shit. How bad?”

“I believe it’s going to become of international importance.”

_Of course it is._ “Those motherfuckers. Why can’t they take a break once in a while?”

“Diego,” Five looks tired, why does he always look tired? “They probably are. Anyone at the Commission can schedule a vacation at any time. At any point _in_ time. From my experience, people in Corrections aren’t exactly encouraged to, but the point is, they don’t work by our clocks. They could have been prepping this one for months, and for us it would only be minutes. They’ll always be ahead because for them, deadlines don’t technically exist.”

Five is rubbing distractedly at his temples the way he does when he gets one of his stress headaches. Hoping to avoid another lecture on the nonlinear nature of time and an evening spent with Five mind-mapping around his apartment, Diego changes the subject abruptly. To the first thing on his mind.

“Food’s spicy,” he says like an idiot. But it works; Five drops his hands.

“I thought you liked Indian,” he says innocently.

Diego begins to clear the table, “You’re not fooling me, I know you’re smiling some big Grinch smile on the inside.”

Five starts washing the dishes Diego is piling next to the sink. “Who is Grinch?” he asks.

“ _The_ Grinch. You know, some guys torture their boyfriends in fun sexy ways. Like blowjobs. Edging.”

Five’s face scrunches up because he is an actual cartoon character when he doesn’t understand something, “Did the Grinch give good blowjobs?”

“Jesus,” he sputters, nearly dropping his small tower of empty takeout containers, “Five you can never say that ever again. Promise me you will never repeat that.” But Five has moved on. Having finished the dishes, he sets himself primly on the couch and gestures for Diego to join him.

“Nuh uh, no way are you getting your little claws into me until you’ve washed that shit outta your mouth.”

Five rolls his eyes, tugging him down all the same, “Relax, not everyone is as sex obsessed as you,” and places his head firmly in Diego’s lap, “Or the Grinch, for that matter.”

“You are evil.”

“ _You_ are warm. Now read to me,” and Diego obeys, opening the collection of short stories Five has been reading in the evenings as a break from his other, more ambitious mathematical texts and research. He’s found that he likes Neil Gaiman in particular.

(“The man comes very near guessing correctly sometimes,” he told Diego last week.

“The guy who writes about fairies and stuff?”

Five just waved his hand, “Magic, gods? The Commission’s technology has been called far worse.”

“Still,” Diego insisted, “Thor?”

“Diego, you can hold your breath underwater for an indeterminate amount of time. One of our brothers is part ape, and the other can literally conjure the dead,” Five said, and that had shut Diego up.)

Diego reads from _Smoke and Mirrors_ and cards his fingers through Five’s hair. As the boy relaxes, letting his body rest more fully against Diego’s, he begins to catch more of Five’s forehead on his strokes.

“Five, baby,” he says, pausing in his reading, “you’re kinda warm.”

Five hums, half asleep already, “That’s the point. Library’s cold. House’s cold. Outside,” he gestures vaguely towards the door, “cold.”

“Nah, that’s just you, kid. Cold blooded.”

“Hiss,” Five says like a maniac, and Diego resumes his petting.

* * *

Later that week, Diego is back at the house, visiting with mom and helping her do some chores. He wishes he had done more to help when he was a kid, but it hadn’t been till he moved out that he realized how much work goes into keeping a home. _Jesus_ he thinks, pulling one of Luther’s enormous shirts out of the dryer, _no one should have to take care of all this by themselves_. He’s walking out the kitchen, throwing another smile over his shoulder at Grace, when he sees Five in the living room.

He’s chatting with Vanya, which is not a very unusual thing, but it _is_ unusual that he’s doing it here and now, on a Tuesday afternoon. Ever since diverting the Apocalypse (again) and performing some bizarre time-travel-shit to age himself up to a body which can legally rent a car, Five’s been keeping a steady work schedule. _Self Employment_ he’ll tell anyone who asks, but Diego knows it’s not really employment of any sort. Five has taken it upon himself to tear apart what’s left of The Commission, spending a regular nine and a half hour shifts holed up in the library, scribbling and performing math which interprets the fabric of the universe just like he did for forty years in the end times. Only now, at the insistence of the library’s management, he uses notebooks instead of the walls.

Vanya perks up at his entrance, making Five turn in his seat to see Diego.

“Five,” he says dumbly.

“Diego.” His face looks purposefully blank. There are deep shadows under his eyes.

“Five- I-,” he struggles to find words that won’t sound accusatory, “What are you doing here?”

“I wouldn’t have thought it would have escaped your notice, seeing as you call yourself a detective, but I actually live here.” Five isn’t angry, though. He’s amused in a way that wouldn’t be apparent to anyone else, the skin around his eyes and forehead noticeably un-creased. Vanya tries to cover a snort with a poor imitation of a cough.

“Yes Five,” it’s Diego’s turn to roll his eyes, ”but you’re never here during the day. Why aren’t you working?” Five’s posture doesn’t shift, but he can tell an invisible guard has been dropped. It’s in his eyes.

“I took a day off.”

Vanya ruffles at this, “With Hudson Gardens coming up so soon? You haven’t been around in weeks. Diego’s right - why aren’t you at the library?”

“Glad to see you’ve been missing my company,” Five is clearly attempting to appear blaise, but the words come out icy.

“ _Five_.” Shit. Diego didn’t mean for this to happen - Five hates interrogations. “We’re just asking a simple question, man.” At this, Five stands up so suddenly Diego can actually see the head rush he’s experiencing, but then Vanya _bless you Vanya_ covers quickly.

“But I think that’s awesome! Taking some time off, I mean,” Five doesn’t look convinced, so she continues, “You of all people deserve a break, right?”

It works, Five softens as he sinks back into the chair. “Right,” he says uncertainly. He’s not used to being cared about, Diego knows. Sometimes finds it difficult to accept care and attention without a quid pro quo. _Old habits die hard_ , he thinks.

Diego stands there another awkward couple of seconds. Clears his throat. “Well. I guess I better be going then,” he casts his eyes around the room, finally coming back to Five’s bright eyes, “See you at my place tonight?”

“Actually, I could just join you now, if you don’t mind.” There’s that careful expression again, like Five is afraid of being shunned.

Diego’s surprised to say the least, “Oh! Oh yeah, of course you can, it’s just, I’ve got that class later and I uh - I know how you don’t - um - ”

“Enjoy waiting around in your dingy basement apartment?” Five finishes for him.

Diego wills his irritation back because Five is acting weird. “Yes,” he says lamely, “that.”

Five rises more slowly this time and steps over to Vanya, delivering a swift kiss to the top of her head, “Well I will, because I happen to like you more than the average person.” Vanya coos delightedly.

“Yeah babe, we’re gonna have to work on your love language,” he tells Five slinging an arm around his thin shoulders, steering them both out the door, “You see, mine is acts of service.”

“I knew you took that quiz I sent you!” Vanya calls after them.

* * *

Five is quiet in the car and quiet when Diego lets him into the boiler room. Distantly, Diego wonders why he doesn’t just blip himself inside, but certainly won’t complain if his boyfriend is finally exploring the world of manners.

Hours later when he returns from teaching his kickboxing class, Diego is sweaty and a little riled up. He finds Five on the sofa reading Gaiman. He frowns a little at the abandoned ledgers and physics books scattered on the floor,

“I thought fun books were only for evenings and the weekend? Or was that holidays?”

Five huffs a little, but doesn’t rise to Diego’s teasing, “I have a headache,” he admits.

Diego hums sympathetically, already flicking on the kettle, “Couldn’t focus, huh?”

“Are you making English breakfast?” he asks hopefully, instead of answering.

“Nope, green,” Diego waits a beat before turning back around to look at Five, “decaffeinated.”

Five just groans.

* * *

Five spends the night and manipulates Diego into joining him in his early, old-man bedtime. He’s been sleeping over more frequently, claiming to be taking advantage of the insane heat of the boiler room. Five’s books and Five’s sleep shirts and Five’s stupid grooming products find little homes throughout the apartment, making Diego’s chest go funny and tight with pleasure at the evidence of their shared space and intertwining lives.

Five is adorably pliant at ten in the evening, snuggling into the quilt Grace made for Diego when he first moved out. Listening to his soft breathing, it doesn’t take long till Diego passes out as well, but he finds Five rigid with sleeplessness when the alarm goes off at six.

He wonders if it was another nightmare. Diego molds himself more securely onto the boy’s back and switches off the harsh beeping, letting them both rest another moment. Nosing the back of his neck, Diego can smell Five’s ocean-scented shampoo and the real salt of fresh, clean sweat.

“Five...” he begins.

“Will you drive me to the library?” he cuts Diego off.

“Sure thing, baby boy,” he kisses his shoulder, knowing Five is deflecting, that he doesn’t want to talk about the things which keep him up at night, “but it’s not open yet, we’ve got another- ” he glances at the clock on his nightstand again, “ - hour and fifty six minutes.”

Five stretches, feline. Cracks his toes which he knows weirds Diego out. “Breakfast?” he suggests on the second half of a yawn.

“You got it.” Diego hugs him a little closer to his body and presses another kiss to the juncture where his neck and shoulders meet, reminding Five that he’s here and he’s never letting him go. Five rolls over to face him.

“Coffee?” he suggests sweetly, dimples appearing.

“Don’t push it,” he tells him.

* * *

It’s four in the afternoon when Diego gets a call, and the candid photo of Five reading in the corner of a coffee shop pops up as the caller ID. Five would kill him if he knew, as it’s hardly the most flattering image. Five’s eyes are directed downwards with manic intensity and he’s gripping a crumpled napkin, clearly in the process of tearing it to shreds. Diego isn’t quite sure why he loves it, but then again, he and Five certainly make an unlikely pair to begin with.

“What’s up?” he asks, but there’s only silence from the other end. He tries again, then realizes his boyfriend is doing that thing when he’s embarrassed and struggling to find a way to begin, even though that is not the best way to communicate over a _phone call_. Diego breathes, counts to ten, then tries once more.

“Five? Baby are you there?” He keeps his voice soft, and is rewarded with a burst of breath turned to static in his ear.

“Can you come pick me up?”

* * *

Five says nothing on the ride back, just gently presses the tips of thin fingers to his eyes and temples like his head is a new instrument he’s learning to play. Like he’s searching for the right notes.

Diego tries not to cast too many worried glances the boy’s way, but when Five crawls into Diego’s bed, shaking and grey, he can’t stop himself from speaking up.

“We’re gonna have to talk about this, you know.” He brushes cold sweat off the boy’s clammy face.

Five catches the hand with his smaller, colder one. “Please,” he says, his voice small, “Later?”

“Of course,” a chaste peck to his slightly warm forehead, “you catch up on those Z’s.”

Five lets out a little hmph sound, but does as he says.

* * *

He sleeps through the end of the day and well into the evening. Diego considers waking him up for dinner, but one look at the way Five’s face is pinched even in sleep makes him think that rest is the best thing for him now.

Diego spends a quiet evening making veggie pasta and reading a book Five recommended. It’s a collection of letters sent between John and Abigail Adams. Diego isn’t usually inclined towards the recounting of old dead white dudes, but there is something touching in the way the letters switch effortlessly from international politics to inside jokes. There’s an early one which Diego particularly likes. It begins “Miss Adorable” and Diego can’t stop grinning about it throughout the day. _Adorable_. God, Five would have killed him. He knows Five doesn’t see himself as the Abigail in their relationship. Neither of them are, not really. After all, John spent ten years in Europe, away from his family, friends, and even his Miss Adorable. Five has him beaten by three times that much.

When Diego’s eyes are aching from reading in the low light, and it becomes clear that Five isn’t waking till morning, he shucks off his clothes and joins him in bed. Five is boneless and doesn’t so much as twitch when he eases himself carefully onto the mattress. Diego resolves to make a big breakfast in the morning - lots of eggs - and get to the bottom of Five’s recent change in routine and general lethargy. He’s not naive enough to think it’s just the nightmares; sharing a bed with the man for almost eight months now has taught him that this is something entirely different. Something new. But he’ll get to the bottom of it the same way Five unnervingly does with all of Diego’s insecurities.

When he wakes the next morning, Five is gone.

* * *

Diego checks the locker room showers first, even though Five refuses to bathe in a communal space. (“I’m fifty eight years old, Diego. And I grew up in the goddamn Apocalypse. I’ll take a fucking bath if I want to.”) Now firmly confirmed that Five is being a little dick, he hops in his car.

He checks the library, then all of the pretentious coffee shops Five likes to indulge in once in a blue moon. He even swings by Griddy’s, though Five doesn’t typically like to reminisce about their all-around-bad childhood. Finally, he drives west again, towards the mansion.

When he pulls into the back drive, Five is already running out of the house. He’s pale and his eyes are a little wild, hands covered in chalk. Diego hardly has time to open the driver side door when Five is on him, shoes skidding in the gravel.

“It’s happening,” he says, breathless.

“Now?”

“Yes, didn’t you hear me? We have to go!”

“But it’s early, it wasn’t supposed to happen for another week!”

“Diego,” Five is gripping his shoulders, there’s a vein jumping in his forehead, “they must have caught on, or I messed up the calculations. Whatever. What matters is that it is happening _right now_ and if we don’t stop it, hundreds of people are gonna die.”

“Shit,” Diego starts the car back up and Five whips himself into the passenger seat. As they pull away, he can make out the shapes of Luther, Vanya, and Klaus throwing themselves into Dad’s Rolls Royce.

Just like old times.

* * *

When they return to the boxing gym late that evening, Diego lets Five make his own way down to the boiler room. He’s determined to finish their non-conversation from yesterday, but first he absolutely _needs_ to get clean. His Kevlar vest and reinforced turtleneck do a good job protecting him while on the job, but it’s a bitch to get out of and makes him sweat like a pig. He watches Five stumble a little on the stairs, but resists the urge to help him. If he coddles Five now, he might lose his chance to confront him later. Diego turns the other way towards the showers.

Through off-the-books memos from Herb, Five had caught wind of a mass shooting scheduled in Hudson Yards. The ensuing terror was apparently vital for some small-time New York politician’s career, but Five had run the numbers a million times, and decided that ultimately it was an endeavor whose bad outweighed the good. Too many innocent lives for political gains down the timeline. In a sense, meaningless.

In order to effectively stop it, Five said that they had to wait for the actual event to occur. Preventing it beforehand would do no good, as the Commission could easily send out more agents. The catalyst didn’t matter so much as the actual reaction, Five had explained, and then spent the next three weeks figuring out the exact date and time the killing started. Once it did, the New York residents of the Umbrella Academy would nip the bud just at its moment of bloom, erasing it from the timeline forever.

Predictably, it had taken more than Five’s less-than-diplomatic reasoning to send the Commission agents on their way. Luther had gotten a concussion. Luther. Vanya sustained a few minor burns from a grenade detonated in the confines of a short alley behind the mall, and Diego himself had narrowly avoided death by strangulation. Five had saved him. In fact, Five had blipped around with incredible dexterity, pushing family members out of harm’s way and Commission agents into it. It had looked less like Five was riding the flashes of blue light from spot to spot, and more like he himself was the crack of lightning.

When they heard sirens in the distance, there was barely any time to think. Five grabbed hold of him and suddenly they were back where they parked near Penn Station. Diego had to force himself to drive back uptown at a normal speed so as to not attract attention.

But now they were home, and in one piece. Returning from his shower, Diego was relieved to find Five inside; he had half expected him to run off again.

He’s less happy to see him with his head firmly planted on the kitchen table, arms hanging limp at his sides. Five’s hands twitch dully, and he seems to be murmuring to himself.

Diego approaches with caution - a quiet Five is a jumpy Five, he’s learned one too many times - and strokes a steady hand down the boy’s back. His shirt feels tacky, stuck to his back with sweat, but then it has been a long day.

“Five?” Diego’s tone is purposefully neutral. Gentle. He’ll let Five say what’s on his mind in his own time and on his own terms. _He’s incredible like that_ , Diego thinks as he sweeps his hand to the back of the boy’s head, tugging a little on the hair that’s grown longer there, _viciously independent_. Five’s spent most of his life alone, with no need to communicate with anyone other than a projection of his own consciousness. Even as a child, Five was quiet, secretive. He had never even tried to be honest, never attempted to let anyone else into his private world. But he does now. For Diego.

He knows there are so many _too many_ thoughts racing at once in Five’s head. He explained it once like maps on maps laying over one another and fighting for dominance in his brain. Diego knows he could spend far more than the twenty four hours in the day interpreting them all, but he doesn’t. Five talks now, a lot more than he used to when he was newly back (newly _home_ ) and reserved.

_Shy_ Diego thinks to himself, spreading his fingers more deliberately within Five’s hair, _Five was_ shy, _but we were too busy being defensive to notice._

He keeps up the massage for a few more minutes until Five’s silence begins to worry him. Diego crouches down, and turns the old metal chair Five is currently slumped on towards himself in an effort to catch his eye.

Five sighs. Brings his hands up to cradle the crown of his head, “I’m fine, Diego.”

He expected this. “What’s on your mind, baby boy?” Five snorts at that, fingers now digging into his eyes.

“Seriously, babe, are you okay?”

“What kind of question is that?” Diego can tell Five meant to snap at him, but it comes out more like a sigh. He runs his hands up Five’s legs which are slender and pale and currently wrapped in dark chinos.

He hums as an answer, running calloused palms up and down his thighs, looping underneath to the sensitive backs of his knees. Five shudders despite himself.

“Diego,” his voice is wonderfully breathy, “I’m _thinking_.”

Diego tsks. “Stop it then.” He’s letting his hands run wild over Five’s torso now, petting at his stomach - slightly concave - and then smoothing down his shirt in the back which has become rumpled through a day of crime-fighting. Five lets his hands fall to Diego’s arms but keeps his eyes closed.

“I’m tired,” he says, head tilted down.

“You sure that’s it?” Diego’s not convinced. It’s been a long day, yes, but a good one too. And he had been so off lately. Quiet. Shaky.

And now here he was at Diego’s place, sitting at his table acting like, for all the world, an uninvited stray. He knows better than to push Five on this; the Commission had fucked him so many ways it was still a difficult subject to discuss. But he would explain it all one day, Five promised he would. Diego just had to be patient.

He waits some more, until it becomes obvious that whatever they need to talk about, it isn’t going to happen tonight. Five is only half awake, leaning towards the whole. And he always needs to rest after jumping so many times. It’s draining, he knows. Diego had honestly expected him to fall asleep in the car.

“Well you need to eat something before you go to bed, okay?” He waits for a response, but Five merely shrugs in return, so Diego busies himself with heating up some leftover stir fry and thinning out a protein shake from the fridge with some milk so that Five won’t complain about the taste of the chemicals. Then he sits down, keeping a steady hand on Five’s knee, making sure he eats at least half. Slender fingers draw shapes on the table’s surface as he picks at his food, but Diego knows better than to think it is mindless.

_Probably sketching out the next disaster to avert_ he thinks.

When Five begins tapping out a rhythm on the plate, and clouds glaze over his eyes, Diego slides the dish out from under him and guides him towards the bed. Letting his boyfriend flop onto his stomach, Diego makes quick work of his shoes, jacket, and pants. Left in his undershirt and briefs, Five pulls his skinny legs up towards his chest.

“Yeah yeah,” Diego soothes as he pulls off his own clothes and turns off the light, “I’m coming, drama queen.” Easing himself on to the bed, Diego thinks he hears Five whine, just a little. He stills halfway under the covers.

“Five? Sweetheart, are you really okay?”

But Five was already asleep, breath whistling through his nasal passages in a way that was definitely not snoring. Laughing silently, Diego tucks himself more firmly against his boyfriend’s back, and it seemed to him Five clung to the arm he stretched over his side.

* * *

Diego woke to heat.

It was intense, heavy. The heat weighed on his chest and his pelvis and the tops of his legs. He was trapped.

Diego opened his eyes to find Five half draped over, half curled against him. Five was warm, and, there was no mistaking it this time, emitting a high whiny pitch. When Diego looked closer, craning his neck and scrunching his forehead, he could see the boy was still asleep.

“Five!” Shit shit _shit_ he’d left it for too long. The warning signs were there, he had seen them, but he just went along with it, trusting Five to come forth in his own time.

It seemed that time was up now. Five’s whole body was strained with tension; jaw tight and face screwed up in agony. What was most worrying, however, was the way his fists were clenched as if he were trying to teleport away from an unseen enemy. When familiar blue sparks started to appear around the boy’s hands, Diego panicked.

“FIVE!” fearing he might jump while still unconscious, Diego grabbed hold of his shoulders and shoved Five flat on his back, pinning him to the bed. Five’s breaths started to come in sharp gulps, and Diego leaned over him to grab something - anything! - from the bedside table.

Throwing what felt like a comb (probably Five’s) at the light switch, Diego wastes no time launching his weight on the boy in question, gripping the sides of his head. Five’s face has lost those adorable cheeks from the thirteen year old body Diego had first seen him in, transforming instead to the chiseled cheekbones and handsome sweep of jaw that turned so many heads. Now his cheeks were gaunt, and except for the unhealthy splotches of deep pink, quite quite pale.

Diego watched as he struggled to surface. With a short wail, Five’s eyes flickered and snapped open. The world seemed to stand still for a moment; Diego’s bulk pressing atop the boy’s. Unnatural heat and terror radiated from his panting form.

“Diego?” He watched Five’s unfocused eyes rove around the now illuminated room, watched them latch on to Mom’s cross stitch on the wall and the hundreds of medical journals Five himself had piled on the chair in the corner. He spat out more warm air and pawed at Diego’s chest.

“I - please - Diego, _please_.” He suddenly realized that he had Five essentially in a four point hold, with his weight centered over Five’s chest and his thighs pinning the boy’s own to the mattress.

“Jesus,” he practically flung himself off the side of the bed and onto the floor, scrambling up to his knees to come level with Five, waiting for the other to calm down.

Eventually Five’s breaths evened, and his eyes began to droop. Diego rubbed small circles on what he could reach of his shoulder.

“Baby,” he kept his voice low, “you gotta tell me what’s going on.”

Five just scowled at the ceiling.

_Well_ , Diego sighed to himself, _at least that’s normal_.

* * *

He props Five up on the bed, letting him rest his weight against the concrete walls of his one room apartment. Five picks at the comforter. Fidgets. Diego intends to keep his cool, wait patiently for Five to speak first, but when he abandons the blanket in favour of scratching at the skin of his legs, he can wait no longer.

“Is it your powers?” Diego blurts out.

Five looks up sharply, “What?”

“C’mon man, you think I wouldn’t notice? You’ve been asking for rides - everyone knows you just blip yourself around. But you’ve been driving with me, screwing up your own insane schedule-”

Five’s face turns stony, but Diego can tell there’s hurt behind the mask. “I am not _insane_ ,” he grits out.

Diego slowly exhales, counting to ten. For such a smart person, Five can be an idiot sometimes. Especially when it comes to accepting help.

“Babe,” he rubs a little at Five’s ankle where his legs are dangling off the bed, “that’s not what I meant. Stop deflecting.”

Five - there is no other word for it - _bristles_ at the direct order, hunching his shoulders and lowering his head. With his new body, he has lost a lot of those awkward, jabby mannerisms from when he was trapped as a teenager, easing into his taller form which could more naturally take command. He’s by no means loose, but Five has mostly replaced that feral crouch with a new and dignified posture. He moves more slowly now, and it is precisely this tempo that allows him to demand respect, despite his still fresh-faced appearance. That didn’t mean he wasn’t still a little shit though.

“Please Five, just tell me what’s wrong.”

Five takes a moment to watch where Diego is brushing up his ankle and into his calf muscle with deep, even strokes of his thumb. Hesitates.

“I just want to help.”

And with that, Five deflates. He huffs out a breath and lets his head fall back with a thunk, gazing tiredly up at the low ceiling.

“I’m tired,” he admits with a scratchy voice, and Diego takes this as permission to climb back onto the bed with him. Five drops his head to his shoulder. Diego wonders if he’s even able to hold it up on his own.

He hums, takes Five’s hand in his own and resumes the steady rhythm he was rubbing on his leg, “What else?”

“Nothing else, just tired. Can’t concentrate. Couldn’t jump to the library,” he turns and plants his head more firmly into Diego’s chest, mumbling something to his left pectoral.

“What was that, babe?”

Five groans, but repeats, “Had to take a taxi to your place,” and Diego can’t help a small grin. Five _hates_ taxis. Luther must have had Dad’s car.

“Okay, so you were so run down you couldn’t get to your super special math lab, but then what about tonight?” He bounces Five a little in his arms, “You were on fire, babe. Saved all of our asses.”

Five mumbles something which sounds like _that’s right_ as he drapes his legs onto Diego’s. Five is now almost completely in his lap, which suits Diego just fine. “That was different,” he explains with an adorable little yawn, “tonight was important. Couldn’t - ah - mess it up.”

Diego considers this, taking the moment to start stroking between Five’s shoulders. He can feel the heat there through the thin material of his undershirt.

“Five,” he says carefully, “when you say tired, what kind of tired?”

Five grinds his head into Diego’s chest, “Um, you know, the usual tired. Achy, dizzy,” he pauses, thinking, “vomit a little.”

“Sweetheart,” he pushes Five’s shoulders to get a better look at him, “are you _sick_?”

“I don’t think so,” Five looks thoughtful, “I’ve been sick. In the Apocalypse, I mean. Sunstroke, hypothermia,” he groans when Diego brings his other hand up to work at a knot in his shoulder, “ah - sepsis, I think?” Five screws up his face, “Truthfully, that one is a little fuzzy. It could have easily been a simple bacterial blood infection.”

Hearing Five talk so casually about the horrors he faced in the end times makes Diego hold him a little tighter. He snakes his hand around to cup the back of the boy’s neck. “Baby,” he starts, but struggles to find the right words, “ _Five_ ,” he whispers into the boy’s damp hair, “you’re not there anymore, okay? You don’t have to be at death’s door in order to call in sick. Jesus, I thought you were having some migraine-breakdown-thing. The same rules don’t apply here. If you puke, you tell me.”

Even with his glassy eyes and pink cheeks, Five manages to look fierce, “I’m not a child. I don’t need to be sent to bed for running a temperature.”

“Funny, cuz you seemed to find your way there all on your own. I know you don’t nap, Five,” he pauses, then considers, “Maybe you should start. You don’t need to run yourself ragged all the time. You’re not in the Apocalypse - ”

Five grimaces a little at the mention.

“ - and you’re never going back. You can take a damn break when you feel bad.”

He’s pulling Five _beautiful, crazy Five_ in for another, more secure hug, when the boy lets out an airy laugh.

“What?”

Five peels himself off of Diego’s chest. Looks at him, gaze steady and eyes impossibly old.

“You can’t know that,” he says quietly, like it’s a fate he’s already accepted.

“Oh baby,” says Diego, “you’re done, okay? You hear me on that? You’ve stopped the Apocalypse - twice now actually. Timeline’s sorted. That Handler bitch is dead, and we’re picking off the rest of them. Five, tonight? That Hudson Gardens thing is pretty small potatoes compared to the end of the world, and you stopped this one too.”

But Five’s expression hasn’t changed. If anything, the lines around his mouth have deepened, and when he speaks, his voice is sad;

“Diego the Commission literally _controls_ time. I may have taken out some of Management, but the basic structure is still there. You’ve seen it - the resources they have. It’s an enormous web, dedicated to one particular sequence of events. And while I may have been able to shuffle them a few times,” Five doesn’t look proud, he looks little and ill and a tiny bit broken, “The butterfly effect is inconceivable. I’ve only slowed them down. They still have the same end goal; retirement on an otherwise unoccupied planet,” Five looks haunted, and it makes Diego imagine him with a much older body, being forced to trade one hell for another.

“In many ways,” Five concludes, letting his head rest on Diego once more, “I’ve only just begun.”

“You’re afraid it’s going to happen again. The Apocalypse,” Diego breathes out, stunned.

“Yes,” Five says simply, but he digs his fingers into Diego’s shoulder, “I am afraid of that.”

Five is shivering, Diego realizes and, for the first time since being woken up by the boy’s intense fever, glances at the clock. The numbers 4:00 blink back at him in harsh blue lettering. Diego looks back down at Five, who, now that his speech is over, is clearly struggling to keep his eyes open. Diego does not have a thermometer in his apartment. He does not have cold and flu medication. He does not even have a washing machine to run the now-soaked sheets through. When Five lets out the tiniest of whimpers, clearly attempting to smother the sound of it in Diego’s sternum, he makes an executive decision which he knows the boy will not like.

_I hope Mom’s finished her last charging cycle_ he thinks as he hauls Five to his feet.

* * *

Diego’s sweatshirt is on the floor. Next to it are a pair of Diego’s soft running pants and thick, army-standard socks. Diego’s clothes are strewn across the bathroom tile, but Diego himself stands next to them, fully dressed.

Five sits in the bathtub fully nude.

Getting him out of the apartment had been surprisingly easy. Diego honestly expected more of a fight on leaving so early in the morning, but it was a testament to how poorly Five must be feeling, as he simply slipped into the clothes Diego offered him with shaking hands.

Once they reached the Academy, Diego dragged him straight to Grace, who put a hand to Five’s clammy cheek and tutted disapprovingly,

“One hundred and four point one degrees Fahrenheit! Number Five, you need to start taking better care of yourself.” Five just huffed hot breaths into Diego’s collarbone, propped up at his side.

“Best to get him to bed, Diego dear. I’ll be there in a moment.” At this, the pair headed upstairs, Diego supporting a hazy Five the whole way.

Between maneuvering Five’s clumsy feet from one step to another, Diego caught the words _paradox_ and _threads_ from his feverish mumbling. Five’s eyes were lidded, shifting restlessly, trying to focus anywhere except for the space in front of him. Diego wasn’t even sure the boy knew where he was until Five dug his heels in at the sight of his bedroom door.

“Can I have a bath?” he had asked so hesitantly it made Diego want to cry.

“You cold, baby?”

“Always.”

So now they were in the en-suite bathroom, watching the water slowly climb higher and higher up the porcelain walls of the tub. Five swishes his hands around, wetting them, and brings them up to rub at his eyes in that familiar gesture.

“Headache?”

Five just nods his answer, wet hair flopping.

“Then lean back. Go on. Shh, Five,” Diego soothes, scooping small handfuls of warm water and bringing them up to trickle down Five’s scalp. He repeats this gesture until the fine muscles of Five’s chest relax, and his eyes have closed of their own accord.

Diego lets him rest there for a while, turning off the tap. He can hear the congestion rattle in Five’s lungs.

Mom finds them a little while later. She brings a glass of water, pain meds, and a medicated ointment for Five’s chest and temples. When Diego unscrews the lid, a wave of mint and some unfamiliar chemical agent hit him, instantly transporting him back to the cold sheets and solitary walls of his childhood.

No wonder Five has been crashing at his place.

Diego wakes the boy in question, watches him swallow the pills and water in quick succession. He shivers involuntarily when a few beads of the glass’s condensation drop to his bare chest, so Diego figures a little more bath time is in order.

He squirts terrible blue-coloured shampoo onto his hands, and begins on Five’s hair. Working in small but firm circles, he drags the soap from his hairline to the back of the boy’s head. Five makes a soft sound, and a dripping hand reaches back, latching onto his own.

“Thank you,” he says simply, with a sigh.

Diego tries to ignore the wave of irritation at Five for letting it go this far, his protective instincts turning against logic. He breathes. Watches the waves of Five’s hair churn and twist in his hands.

“Just don’t let it get this bad again, okay?”

“Okay,” Five agrees, then quietly adds, “it can be difficult. Sometimes.”

Diego stays silent, waiting for more, and sure enough, Five brings his hands back up to scrub at the pressure which is no doubt building behind his eyes. Diego can hear it in the particular strain of his voice.

“There’s just so much to _do_. And it’s selfish to stop and rest when I know,“ Five has to pause, collecting himself, presses his head more securely into Diego’s hands, grips his legs under the surface of the water, “I know for a fact I’m not doing enough - even when I’m - even when - when I don’t feel - ”

A strangled sound escapes Five’s throat and his bare shoulders shake with dry, completely silent sobs. It’s not the illness which burns through the last of Five’s reserves, Diego is starting to realize, but the admission; finally allowing himself to fully feel the effects it’s having on his body. Left to his own devices, Five probably would have worked until he literally dropped with exhaustion, then locked himself in his room for a few days until his immune system finally kicked whatever bug he picked up. He might have taken some medicine to speed up the recovery process, but Five would not have indulged in real _rest_. He would have started all over again, a little more tired, a little more haggard, till the process started anew.

Five begins to hiccup, breath whistling in and out of his body uncontrollably.

“But I - _want_ to - want to - do it - ” he sounds desperate, like he actually needs to convince Diego of his good intentions, voice pitchy and cracking all over the place.

Five is at the complete end of his strength, Diego knows, so he rinses his hair, using the leftover glass to scoop. The tub has drained imperceptibly, leaving Five trembling from the exposure and rapidly cooling water. Diego suddenly wonders how smart of an idea the bath was. He hauls Five to his feet and has to support most of his weight while wrangling him into a towel.

When they’re both dry and situated in bed - Diego on the left side, Five on the right - he presses his lips to Five’s temple, checking his temperature. He’s by no means cool, but thankfully his fever has dropped some of the worryingly unhealthy heat. The scent of his shampoo mixes bizarrely with the mint of Mom’s cream. Diego isn’t sure if he likes the smell yet, but it’s certainly addictive, and has him sniffing deliberately into Five’s hair to check.

“Do you have a fever too, or is it now considered normal behavior to treat someone’s head like a scented candle?” Well at least Five isn’t delirious.

“Like you would know normal if it bit you in your scrawny little ass. Go to sleep, invalid.”

In the early light from the street outside, Five looks pale and worn but hopefully on the mend. His eyes still flicker listlessly around the room, too tired to focus too long on one thing, but he’s breathing deeper and doesn’t seem to be in as much pain.

Deep worry finally abated, Diego begins to drift off when Five speaks, voice gravelly,

“I’m sorry.”

_For the love of -_

“Five,” he says firmly, “this isn’t your fault, baby. You got sick. I just want you to take better care of yourself.”

“ ‘S hard,” Five’s voice is slurring, rapidly approaching sleep, “I can feel my heartbeat in my shins,” he adds nonsensically. _Yeah maybe not the best time for this conversation._

“That’s right, it’s your biological clock telling you to go the fuck to bed,” God it must be six or seven in the morning by now. Diego is too tired to check.

“Time isn’t linear,” Five reminds him.

“Shh I know, Spock. Just let it go for a day. Or better yet, a week.” Five goes rigid at this. He’s not as out of it as Diego thought. Running a cautious hand down the boy’s back, he feels better when Five reaches back to grab it.

“I’ll try. You know that, don’t you?” Five whispers into the cool pillowcase.

“Yes baby,” Diego scoops up Five’s hand to better drape his own arm over the boy’s side, squeezing him to his chest, “I know you will.”

They fall asleep, New York waking in the street below.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you liked it, please consider leaving a comment, they really help :)
> 
> Also, shout out to Achilleees and Electra_XT for making me love this rare pair. I really cannot get enough of Five/Diego, and this is a bit of a love letter to their works. Every repressed genius needs a cuddly boyfriend, okay??
> 
> Lots of love xoxo


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